


Upskirt

by Slater_Babe



Series: Single Scenes by Slater [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alpha Din Djarin, Alpha Mando, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Breeding Kink, F/M, Fantasizing, Longing, Mentioned Creampie, Omega Reader, Omegaverse, Pining, Pregnancy Kink, Yearning, idek what this is but it exists now, mentioned heats and ruts, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slater_Babe/pseuds/Slater_Babe
Summary: You like to wear skirts, and for lack of a better description, Mando likes to look at you wearing skirts. But Maker knows he wants to do more than justlookat you.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Series: Single Scenes by Slater [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188332
Comments: 6
Kudos: 159





	Upskirt

**Author's Note:**

> okay!! so I finally did another single scene~~ this one's a little longer than Size, but. it's still pretty fun!! I hope you all like it even if the premise for it is low-key weird af aksdjfkljf As always, High Rise will be updated tomorrow!! So keep your eyes peeled for that~ other than that, feel free to come say hello to me on Tumblr (linked below)~~
> 
> My Tumblr: [slater-baby](https://slater-baby.tumblr.com)

It was killing him.

Slowly, surely, and inconspicuously, yes, but killing him all the same.

For the first time since he took the Creed, he feels weak. It’s like his control has thinned to the point of crumbling, slowly having been chipped away by every clipped and curt interaction over the past few days. Worst of all, though, he knew you weren’t completely oblivious to the fact, either. It was common courtesy to communicate between partners; that much the both of you could agree on when he hired you as a subcontractor.

He knew a week in advance every time your heats were supposed to come, and you always had ample warning before his rut was due to happen. 

He’d had irregular ruts for years before you came along. He guesses it probably had something to do with how he’d spent weeks - even _months_ \- at a time chasing bounties or wandering the galaxy by himself, all without the touch or presence of another being to restore what humanity he’d lost in the process.

He’d closed himself off, left behind the conventional life of an Alpha for one of muted equivalence: he held his head high with his shoulders back, though his scent glands and stature were obscured by the cover of his clothing; his sense of smell or touch through the armor wasn’t as sharp, leading to somewhat of a disinterest in the ability _to feel things_ at all.

Sure, he was an Alpha. But where that served to underline any other person’s lifestyle, it just seemed irrelevant to what he’d become since he joined the covert.

But then _you_ came along and single handedly blurred every line he thought had previously defined his being. And along with you, returned his humanity.

And what a curse that was, really, because now he had _needs_ and _wants_ and all the frivolous things that came with having even one ounce of care for any other person in this godforsaken universe. Before, he’d been able to go months at a time without feeling any sort of arousal. Yet now, just _existing_ in the same space as you was enough to inspire more than just a few untimely daydreams.

The first rut he’d had since he’d had since you came on board (which was years after his last, if he remembers correctly), it had been hard and unexpected. One minute, he was watching you tuck the Child into the pram, and then the next, his blood was boiling with the desire for things he’d thought he was above all this time - things like smell, like taste, like touch. 

What’s more, things like comfort and amusement - things that tugged at his heart and gave him a funny feeling in his stomach every time he observed it from afar. It came along every time you cooed at the Child during long nights on the Crest, or whenever you brought his food up the cockpit, leaving with a small smile and a warm touch to his pauldron as you reminded him to eat better.

His mind was a mess of primitivity and gentility all the same, some complicated jumble of emotions that belonged more to his barely developed ancestors than a prime Mandalorian bounty hunter.

And without worry of offending them, he’ll say he blames them completely for how he feels every time his rut hits, because this surely isn’t who he is when he’s clear-headed and in control. He couldn’t be held responsible for the way he straightened up every time you entered the room, if only to look an inch taller; he couldn’t be held responsible for the way he bared his teeth behind the cover of Beskar any time another Alpha so much as _talked_ to you: and he definitely couldn’t be held responsible for the way his gut aches to display every trait he knew your Omegan side would be looking for, to give you what he knew the both of your bodies couldn’t live without.

He wants to _mate_ you, wants to fuck you every day until he gets it right, and you’re swollen and heavy with his seed.

He wants you to bear his child, wants you to be the mother of the warriors he’d swear in his vows to raise.

He wants to get you pregnant, and whether it was some stupid Alpha emotion or something completely normal, the preamble was hardly adequate.

You’re not even _his_ , yet his mind still wanders. 

Once again, though, he can’t be entirely at fault. After all, you’re hardly doing anything to discourage the leering either..

Since the day he’d met you, he’d always thought you somewhat unusual. You regularly wore skirts instead of pants, and while there was certainly nothing strange about that, it wasn’t a very easy feat in this line of work. After all, loose fabric was just another hole in your defenses, a point of weakness that could easily give leverage to another person in close quarters.

However, after watching you fold a bandit who’d come a few inches too close, he really stopped caring about whether or not those skirts would get you killed one day. But, to say he stopped caring about them in general would be a total lie.

If anything, he just cared _more_.

And that’s what’s got him fisting his hands over his cuisses when you strut into the galley to grab a nutrition bar, hips swinging and bare legs just begging his eyes to follow. His rut was due any day now, and he was visibly on edge because of it. He’d been rougher with you than normal, more handsy - though, if you noticed, you hadn’t said anything. Every time he needed to squeeze past you to get somewhere, his hands automatically fell to your hips, practically picking you up out of his way just because it somehow satisfied the thrumming beat under his skin that begged him to do _so much more_ than just pick you up.

Through the Beskar, your flowery scent was hard to catch, but it never failed to hang in the air when you passed by. It was a stark contrast to his woodsy musk, but an exact match all the same. His cock throbs as he watches you munch on your snack, leaning over the edge of some crate that’s stacked off to the side of the walking space.

The edge of your skirt lifts dangerously with the movement, and he has to reel himself in before you catch the faint spike in his scent.

Those skirts.

Those _fucking_ skirts. You looked so goddamn good in those skirts - almost criminally so, like every other woman was bland compared to how radiant you looked with the delicate material draped across your lap.

Yet even if he can appreciate the surface-level beauty of it all, the skirts make him think _dangerous_ things.

They make him think of what it’d be like if you’d started wearing them for a different purpose. As a Mandalorian and an Alpha no less, some chemical in his brain was just hardwired to lean that way, and when that part of his mind decided to daydream, he was all but helpless to stop it.

In his mind, you’re not wearing a skirt because you like it, but because you know it’s what gets him going, because you know that’s what’ll have his attention and instincts entirely focused on your every movement. In his mind, you’re not wearing anything beneath that skirt, because you want him to burn in the chest and stand a little taller, because everything _Alpha_ about him matched everything _Omega_ about you to a perfect T.

He can picture it now, the submissive look on your face when he reaches under the dangling fabric, gloved fingers innocently meeting your slick folds and puffy lips, tracing the skin gently, just to watch the way you shiver. 

In his imagination, you’re not bending over that crate because you’re shifting your weight. _No_ , instead, you’re thrown over the thing because he couldn’t wait to get you to the pallet, because he wanted - no, _needed_ \- to fuck you right here, right now, up against some crate in the hull of his ship, where anyone could hear if they happened to share the adjacent docking space.

With the way you look in that skirt, shapely ass just barely covered by the flimsy fabric, he can’t help but feel like he would have been trying to get you pregnant for months now if he’d had the chance.

 _Maker_ , if he had been trying for months with no results, he’d probably be _forcing_ you to wear them at this point, _forcing_ you to have your cunt bare and exposed for him every second of the day, just so he could flip the hem up and fuck you full of his seed any time the feeling welled up inside of him.

He wants to watch drops of his cum leak out from beneath the skirt’s cover, only for him to scoop them up with his fingers and push them back into your abused pussy with the sound of a high whine in the back of your throat in accompaniment. 

The two of you would go on like that until he was sure you were expecting, until you were round and heavy with his baby, tits swollen and full of milk. He’d do it every day if that’s what it took, fuck you every time you asked him, just so the two of you could satisfy that primitive need to _breed_ or _be bred_.

And he’d love you then, respond to your every whim and take care of your every problem. He’d hold your hand through every hard decision and every moment of pain right up until he was holding his son or daughter in his arms, thanking every star in the sky you’d wandered into his life, if only to make him feel like a human once again.

But for now, arousal peaking in his stomach and with no pregnant Omega to show for it, he resigns himself to the half-shameful, half-necessary act of trying again another day. One day he’d get it right; one day he’d work up the courage to take off your skirt instead of just gawk at it.

And when that day comes, Maker knows you won’t be leaving his pallet until he’s sure it takes.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [slater-baby](https://slater-baby.tumblr.com)


End file.
